This Summer time won't follow ancient path,
the flowers will be sad, bee's honey will be bitter.
The steed will not be harnessed to go to distant haunts,
and branchy jasmine in the May won't blossom.
Without reward will the Sun remove the darkness of the days,
and on Midsummer Night Joy won't come even begged.
The blossom picked now will fade forever,
the glade will ghastly be, and every bush hides fear.
The wind will blow red fog across the fields.
Inopportunely, the trees will drop their fruit.
The burden will become that which exists and does not.
And even bowels of the Earth, when asked, won't respond,
because the springs of water will be turned
into a wormwood by your own betrayal.
The Earth's sap was being drawn in to young shoots and buds; life was striving to release its primalforce.
The gates of extermination flew open. Poison flooded the soil of Latvia. It soaked into the ground, it saturated the air, it shrouded the Sun with a bloody vapor that the newborn child sucked in with it's mother's milk, that the woman shall lose the strength in her arms and the glory of her virtue, that the man in the very prime of life shall shrivel and his honor and intensity of mind become like a dead branch which is not able to raise new shoots nor bear its own weight.
The human hand desires to build a monument to an extinguished life, and life itself leaves footprints through the living. But the one who decided to destroy, he eradicated so completely that even a stone could not testify as to where and how long was this battered life. So where the paths of anguish are stained with blood and ruins, there is not even one witness remaining because there should be no one to tell about those to whom belonged this blood, what sort of mind has built those houses smashed now into ruins.
Such a destiny was the condemnation of the Latvian people.5
Who was this monstrosity capable of accumulating such a poison and drenching the soil of the Latvians?
Anyone who from ambush stalks a victim is a villain, anyone who from beneath the cover of the darkness of the night attacks life with a dagger in the back is called a murderer. Yet there does not exist a name to describe this terrible power which left behind skeletons and ruins - in the same way how can a name not be found for all this, the dreadful existence of which is not able to reach the borders of consciousness and mind. This horror, this hunger for blood and the distress brought by an unknown power that neither mankind nor the gods had ever divined or seen.
The martyrs and deportees keep silent, the anguish fades with death, the moans of pain are heard only by the Sky, but the injury, humiliation and shame which screams for the bared lips of the corpses in their black grave holes will never fade. Their blood will forever crave retribution and covering their dust, the Earth will never keep silent until Justice, Nature and God shall take away those pains of soul and body which were suffered by the fettered, disarmed and humiliated Latvian nation in the hour of its trial by anguish.
The Earth opened. It gave back the victims and disclosed the horror, the depth of the disaster and the suffering the Ghastly year had been hiding. The words are dumb, the lips are helpless even to tell about this abyss of inhumanity on the brink of which the Latvian nation, poised for ruin was standing.
The pictures and the evidence which this time has bequeathed to us shall speak for themselves. And the words which they say, calling for retribution, shall never disappear from the consciousness of the Latvian people.